5
Machina
"The real problem is not whether machines think, but whether men do." B.F Skinner
He would walk down long hallways, past other patients who were admitted for numerous reasons. Men and women in their dress shirts, in their white coats, with clipboards and folders in their hands took intentional strides at New York pace. They would look down at their phones, picking, and tapping, and sliding, and typing every second of every minute of every hour of every day.
Of course all financial and monetary regulations for health would have to pass through national politics. Yet those writing and passing legislation were chess players who had no clue their pawns were starving, no clue their knights had no horses, no clue his rooks were asleep on the job, and believed everyone lived happily ever after in their white palace like the king and queen. Of course they would think themselves king, the best piece—what experienced person wouldn't?
He would take the stairs up or down a few levels. He would enter a restroom, he would check under the stalls to see if he was alone. He would wait, wait, wait, wait, wait, until all was clear.
He would turn on the hand dryers, turn on a faucet and ask himself why.
Why.
Why? as warmth trickled down his face.
Why was she so strong?
Why could she handle it all? as he slammed his hands on the counter.
Why could she ignore it more than he could?
Why could she never break from her smile?
Why could she never admit to her pain? as his vision blurred.
Why would she not tell him how he could help?
Why is she okay with the way things are?
Why could she endure? as tears stacked on his nose.
Why could he not see the world through her eyes?
Why could she not see the world through his?
Why was she so much stronger than he was? as he punched an indentation into the tiled wall the shape of an upward-pointing arrow.
He would return to the room checking his phone, joining in on the conversation at hand.
You're bleeding from your left hand, she said this time.
Shit, must've been when the door closed on my hand.
And ever so slightly her smile would fade.
